The Master Of The "Chrysolite"

"Yes, I brought her a quick passage," replied Anderson; then, looking straight at the owner, "and it's the last she'll make under me."

The remnants of a smile coalesced, ploughing up Mr. Ruin's cheeks into greasy furrows.

"My dear Captain, we could not hear of it! We're too old friends to part like that."

"Well, sir, I've come this morning, for private reasons, to throw up my commission," said the captain, simultaneously throwing down his commission before the senior partner's eyes.

"I can't accept it, Mr. Anderson; I can't indeed," replied the owner, picking up the parchment. "And I'll tell you why. My brother and I have been thinking matters over, and we've really been obliged to confess, for conscience' sake, that the Chrysolite is getting old."

"Devilish old!" muttered the captain, forgetting himself for a moment.

"Well, now I think of it again, I believe my brother did say she was 'devilish old'--a strange coincidence. Still she is a fine model of a boat. What d' ye think yourself?"

"She has rare lines," said the other, with a slight approach to grave enthusiasm.

"The very remark I made myself only yesterday. Yes, we agreed she was a pretty boat; and I admit, from sheer sentiment, I cannot bear to think of her being chopped up for firewood. So inharmonious, don't you think?"

The old sailor looked sullen and said nothing.

Mr. Ruin leaned his elbows well on to the table in a confidential manner, and reduced his voice to husky whispering.

"My brother told me he should not mind seeing her end her days as a picturesque wreck, but to sell her for match-wood was barbarous. I was really of the same opinion. And--and--couldn't it be managed for her, Captain Anderson?"

The two looked at each other narrowly. "If you can get any one to do it, of course it can be done. But I would sooner--"

"Now before you judge, hear me, Captain. I feel sure you could find that man if you chose. See; the Chrysolite is insured in the Jupiter Insurance Company for nine thousand pounds. Here is the policy. And the man that saves her from the axe, and makes a picturesque wreck of her, will earn the gratitude of Messrs. Ruin & Ruin, and three thousand pounds besides."

For once even the remnants of a smile had disappeared from the senior partner's face, and he stood confessed--the type of a cool financial scoundrel.

The sailor, on the other hand, was agitated as no one had ever seen him before. The veins stood out on his brawny throat like rope; his eyelids were purple; for a few moments his head swam. Then he righted himself as suddenly, with an emphatic refusal ready on his lips. But the wily partner had left the room. This gave Anderson time to think, and the more he thought the more that pile of gold forced itself before him, until, forsooth, he fell to thinking how such an end COULD be compassed--by another commander. He saw clearly that a skilful seaman might achieve this thing with slight danger to himself and his crew. And all this time the three thousand pounds shone so lustrously that his moral vision was dazzled, and the huge iniquity of the whole affair was rapidly vanishing from sight.

When Mr. Ruin reentered, Anderson was looking ashamed and guilty.

"Well, Captain, can I help you to a conclusion?" came from the oily lips.

"It's this way," replied the old man, turning round, but keeping his eyes fixed on the carpet; "I can't do it. No, I can't."

Mr. Ruin eyed him dubiously, and rubbed his chin gently. "I'm sorry--very, very sorry! Three thousand pounds won't go long begging, though. And I shall have to accept your resignation, Captain."

Anderson only took up his hat and walked slowly out of the room. He had not descended many steps when he turned back and reopened the door.

"No, sir," he said; "it can't be done. I must think it over, and--no--it can't be done." With that he went his way, miserable.

The same night he received a letter by post. It contained his old commission, reinstating him in the command of the Chrysolite.

Four months later the Chrysolite was unloading a general cargo in Mauritius harbour. Captain Anderson had thought it over.

The quay was quickly covered with Manchester bales and Birmingham cases; and it was not long before the tackle at the main-yard arm was set a-clicking, as the baskets of sand ballast were hove up to be poured into the empty hold. No such luxuries were there as steam-winches; not any of those modern appliances for lightening labour. Instead, five or six hands plied the ponderous work at the winch handles, the labour being substantially aggravated by the heat of a vertical sun. A spell at the orthodox hand-winch in the tropics is an ordeal not to be lightly spoken of, and sailors have the very strongest objection to the work. It requires the utmost vigilance on the part of the captain, therefore, to prevent the feebler spirits from deserting. He was able, however, to reckon a full crew as he steered out of Port Louis harbour and shaped his course for Ceylon.

Some of the hands had grumbled at not having more liberty to go ashore. In an excess of passion, Anderson made answer:

"To your kennels, you dogs! I'll put you ashore soon enough, and I'll warrant you'll stay there longer than you care for."

It was indiscreet language, and the men puzzled over it. They concluded that the skipper meant to obtain their imprisonment at the next British port they should touch for mutinous conduct, and, knowing he was a man of his word, they assumed their best behaviour.

Contents